


The Three-Years Card

by Mads



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Arguing, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mads/pseuds/Mads
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times John played the "three years" card with Sherlock, and one time Sherlock played it with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Three-Years Card

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [this](http://penns-woods.tumblr.com/post/48192261331/imjohnlocked-i-just-imagine-john-using-the-3) tumblr post.  
> Thanks to [MissDjinn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDjinn) for beta-ing!

All in all, everything went better than Sherlock had hoped. John was confused and upset and angry and then he wasn't. He looked at Sherlock with haunted eyes until he didn't. For about a week, he lived in a flat in a different part of London, until he moved back in. Life was different, until things returned to a remarkable facsimile of what they'd shared before, and then it was barely different at all.

Only...

“Just EAT, Sherlock. It's been two days.”

“Two days is fine,” Sherlock answered.

“No it isn't. You're practically skin and bones. You need to eat EVERY day, multiple times.”

Sherlock folded his arms petulantly. He was hungry, actually, but he didn't want John to win this one. “ _You_ need to eat. I need to think,” he dismissed.

But John wasn't to be dissuaded. He stubbornly pushed the plate of food across the coffee table towards Sherlock. Eggs, bacon, and toast. “Eat your breakfast,” he insisted flatly.

“I'm _thinking_ ,” Sherlock complained. “I won't be able to work at optimal level until the food is fully digested, and that could take up to eight hours!”

“Eight hours,” John repeated incredulously. “You can't wait eight hours.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I waited _three years_ , Sherlock,” John growled. He stood, turned on his heel, and stalked up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock hadn't noticed him getting angry-- it had happened all at once. He watched John, a very bizarre sinking feeling in his stomach. He was less hungry than ever, but John was upset and he'd left John all alone and John was still here even though he had every reason not to be and without John--

 

Sherlock picked up the plate and ate.

 

–

 

Famous detectives didn't just return from the dead without anyone noticing. Also, it was a slow news week in London. The press conference that Lestrade had called after Sherlock's first successful case back with Scotland Yard was full to bursting.

 

“Mr. Holmes, how do you respond to the allegations made by the late Richard Brook?”

“How did you fake your suicide, Mr. Holmes---”

“Did you murder Richard Brook?”

“Do you have any romance tips for---”

“Where have you been for the past...”

Sherlock tried not to publicly grimace. Lestrade tapped on his microphone, trying to focus the reporters back on the case, but they weren't interested.

“Can we have a picture of you in the hat, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock entirely failed not to publicly grimace. “It's not my hat,” he said into the microphone.

“Oh come on, please?”

“The public loves the hat!”

“Yeah, put the hat on!”

“--the hat!”

John looked up at him and mumbled away from the microphone, into Sherlock's ear: “You'd better just put it on.”

Sherlock looked down at him, visibly affronted.

“You need to. You won't get any private cases unless you cater to them a bit, you know you won't,” John tried to convince him.

“ _It wasn't. my. hat,_ ” Sherlock whispered in a stubborn growl to John.

But John didn't seem to care. “Do it,” he whispered back to Sherlock, “Or I'll start telling them the crushingly anguished story of how you abandoned me for _three years.”_

Sherlock blinked down at John, trying to assess from his facial expression whether he was bluffing or serious. John's tone had left no room for doubt, and his eyes were steel. The last thing either of them needed was to give the reporters a sentimental Hollywood tragedy to latch on to. And Sherlock didn't want to listen to John talk about being all...sad.

Heaving a great, put-upon sigh, Sherlock put on the deerstalker, and they were all blinded by the exuberant flashes of the cameras.

 

–

 

“I'm so _bored_ ,” Sherlock moaned from the couch.

Despite their best efforts to re-establish Sherlock in the public eye, there had not been even a whiff of a case in nearly two weeks. Sherlock was absolutely miserable. And he was apparently determined to make John miserable too.

“Johnnnnnnnnn,” he whined. “Why can't there be any cases? Just one gruesome violent death, that's all I'm asking.”

John was losing his patience; Sherlock could see him try to summon the remains of it over his cup of tea. “There's nothing I can do about that, Sherlock.”

“Give me a cigarette,” Sherlock replied, sticking out his hand expectantly.

John licked his lips. “Nope. You're quitting again.”

“Please?” Sherlock turned to give John his best wide-eyed, vulnerable look.

John did not fall for it. “No. No cigarettes.”

“Patches?”

“You're already wearing a patch.”

“Gum?”

“Not when you've got a patch on!”

“Cocaine?”

John practically spit his tea out, looking wide-eyed at Sherlock, only to realize a moment later that he wasn't being serious. “Not funny,” John rolled his eyes and relaxed back into his seat.

But at least getting a strong reaction out of John had been amusing for a moment. Sherlock decided to recreate the experience. “I'm so bored. I need _something_. Can't you go kill someone?” he asked with a (mostly) joking sincerity. “Don't tell me who it is or how, just go out and do it, I won't even turn it in to the police after. Perfect chance to get away with murder, John, I'll even help if you want.”

John huffed out an exasperated breath. “I am not going to kill someone because you're bored, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned. That was no reaction at all. “I'm so bored I COULD kill someone,” he complained.

“Mm-hmm.” John had returned his attention to his tea.

“I'm so bored I could frame someone else for killing someone.”

“Yup.”

“I'm so bored I could skin someone alive, harvest their organs, sell them on the black market, and use the money to pay another detective to try and find out who did it.”

This utterly failed to surprise John. He only finished his tea in silence.

Sherlock scowled. “I'm so _bored_ , I might as well just die and get it over with.”

John dropped his teacup, crossed over to Sherlock, and grabbed him by the neck of his t-shirt. “Don't you _dare_ ,” John said, boring into Sherlock's eyes with his. His voice was deadly, ice cold.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. He'd succeeded at bothering John, but now he wasn't sure if it had been worth it. “But I'm bored,” he repeated dimly to himself.

“I don't bloody care if you're bored, you do _not_ say or think that EVER again, do you understand me?” John snarled.

Sherlock looked away, not quite wanting to face a John who was this livid, but John took Sherlock's chin and forced him to meet his eyes. Sherlock couldn't quite identify what he saw there, but it made him uncomfortable somewhere deep. Hurt. John, hurt.

“I didn't mean it,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. “Not good?”

John let go of him, dropping him unceremoniously back onto the sofa, and stomped to put the dishes from tea away. “What the hell do you think?!” he snapped as he clattered the dishes into the sink. “I dealt with your suicide for three years, Sherlock,” said John reproachfully, not looking over at Sherlock again, “and you can't even deal with being bored.” He put on his coat and stomped down the stairs before Sherlock could even ask where he was going.

Sherlock watched the space where John had been. What had he done?

–

“This is the place,” Sherlock murmured.

They were crouched behind a parked car on the outskirts of London. A few hundred meters away stood an abandoned factory. Abandoned, but the lights were on.

A sweeping, multi-year investigation against a crime gang had neared completion, until all the evidence against them disappeared from right under the noses of Scotland Yard. Stolen property, doctored documents, and even the hacked-off body parts or corpses of people who crossed them, all gone. According to Sherlock's theory, the gang had taken the evidence here.

“They're in there right now,” John whispered. “The lights...”

Sherlock nodded, drew his revolver, and moved to head in.

But John grabbed him by the wrist and held him back. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” he whispered tersely.

“Confronting the criminals,” Sherlock answered, puzzled. Why was John stopping him? They had to get in quickly before they managed to destroy all the evidence.

Sherlock twisted his hand so that John would let go, but John only adjusted his grip and pulled him back. “Like hell you are,” John said. “There were six of them and only two of us, and you're a _civilian._ We're waiting for the police. What do you think you're going to do?”

Sherlock flicked the safety of his revolver off in response.

John shook his head. “No. What the hell's gotten into you? Since when are you 'shoot first, ask questions later'?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, “Since--”

But John cut him off. “It's not safe, Sherlock.”

“We'll be fine.”

“Sherlock, please. It's too risky. I thought you were dead for three years, please don't--”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his hand free from John. His absence had absolutely nothing to do with this case, and there was no reason for John to be thinking of it now. Sherlock crossed the abandoned lot into the factory at a run. John could only curse under his breath, check his pistol was loaded, and follow after him.

 

The factory was covered in an inch-thick layer of dust, and the lights flickered. Sherlock and John's footsteps were concealed by the hum of the long-disused fluorescent bulbs and the whirr of machinery from somewhere. Inside, three of the criminals were trying to figure out how to operate a large incinerator. Two were playing a game of cards and chatting next to a tall pile of trash bags, and one, evidently the leader, was talking to someone on his mobile.

Sherlock crept around, ducking through the shadows of the old, disused machines, until he was behind the pile of trash bags. Up close, they stank of death—there would more than enough here to send all these men to prison for life. The way Sherlock saw it, he only needed one bag to prove what he needed to prove, and all six criminals were distracted. So he pulled one of the smaller bags from the base of the pile.

For a moment, it was as if nobody even heard the shift, but that didn't last long. Somehow, Sherlock had compromised the structural integrity of the stack. Within moments, the whole thing was toppling over. The two closest criminals jumped to their feet to avoid being crushed, and that was when everyone noticed Sherlock.

Everything was instantly chaos. One of the men trying to work the incinerator pulled a gun; Sherlock shot him outright before he had a chance to aim. He shot the second incinerator man straight in the back and managed to hit the third in the leg before one of the card players tackled him to the ground and forced the gun out of his hand. John fired from his hiding spot, shattering the kneecaps of the card players before they could do anything else to Sherlock. But a second later both card players and Sherlock were buried under the shifting mound of evidence in trash bags. John ran towards them, ready to dig him free. Sherlock clawed his way out after a few nerve-wracking moments, only to receive a resounding CLANG to the head from a crowbar wielded by the leader.

Sherlock heard the sound of a gunshot, and then everything went black.

 

–

 

One of the things – one of the very many things, actually – that Sherlock liked about John was that in certain ways, they were two sides of the same coin. When Sherlock had woken up after being hit with that crowbar, as well as through the corresponding hospital stay and exasperated round of questioning from Lestrade, John had been all business. Calm and stoic. And Sherlock had appreciated it.

So he had no idea what was happening with John now.

John had been quiet in the day or so since they had come back to 221B afterward, which was fine. Other than checking every once in a while to make sure Sherlock wasn't suffering any concerning post-concussive symptoms, he stayed out of Sherlock's way. Which, Sherlock reminded himself, _was fine._ He didn't need to talk to John if John didn't want to talk.

 

Mid-afternoon, it was time for Sherlock to change the bandages wrapped around his head. He was standing in front of a mirror and undoing his current dressing as John came in. “Ah, excellent, John,” Sherlock said, turning to him. “Come here and do this for me, it's much easier with someone else.”

But John was pale and frozen in place. Every muscle was tense. He was balling and unballing his fist, breathing fast and hard and desperately trying to get it under control.

Sherlock frowned. Something was causing John distress? He looked behind him for some threat, but there was nothing other than Sherlock's own image in the mirror. His forehead was still red and bloody, but the bleeding had slowed to a weak trickle on Sherlock's face.

“It's only a head wound, John, I know for a fact that you've seen--”

John was already halfway up the stairs to his room. The door slammed loudly a moment later.

 

What?

 

Sherlock followed him up and knocked on the door. “I asked for your help.”

No answer.

“Aren't you supposed to be some sort of medical professional?”

No answer.

“You're angry at me, then? What on earth for, I didn't--”

“ _Shut up,_ ” John snapped.

Sherlock took this as an invitation to open the door. John was sitting on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his hands. He was sobbing. He was...sobbing?

“John, don't...” Lingering awkwardly in the doorway, Sherlock halfheartedly stretched his hand in John's direction. He had no idea how to stop this.

John sniffed. “M'sorry,” he said, gathering himself up. “I'm so sorry, Sherlock. Come here, I'll re-wrap your bandages.”

Sherlock sat dutifully next to John and let him work. The silence was awkward, neither man knowing what to say. In fact, it was the most awkward silence Sherlock had ever experienced with John, if one could measure such things.

Finally, when the bandages were secure, Sherlock ventured, “I did survive, you know.”

“I know,” John said, looking down at his hands.

“I wasn't even really bleeding that day,” said Sherlock as if he was explaining it to someone rather slow.

“I know.”

“I'm alive now, aren't I?”

“I know!”

“So what's the _problem_?” Sherlock demanded.

John repeated the question to himself silently, mouthing the words. “What's the--- the _problem,_ Sherlock, is that I thought you were dead for _three years._ ”

“And now you know I'm not!” Sherlock pointed out, irritated by the repetition. He stood, and paced John's room agitatedly. “I'm not. Dead! I never was! I thought you'd be pleased, why aren't you pleased? I thought you'd be _fine. Why aren't you fine?_ ”

John hung his head. “Three years, Sherlock. I get that you're not used to this sort of thing, but a good friend would at least _try_ to be sensitive.”

Sherlock gave John a long, assessing glare. “I'm going out,” Sherlock declared finally. He turned on his heel and swept off.

When he got back to the flat, John was gone.

 

–

 

It had all been okay, until it wasn't.

John had forgiven Sherlock, because of course he had. How could he not? Once Sherlock had explained why he jumped, it was clear that he'd done the right thing. And once John had realized he could have his old life with Sherlock back, of course he had jumped at the chance. So to speak.

Only sometimes it still hurt even when it shouldn't have, and sometimes John still snapped even when it wasn't fair, and sometimes John actually remembered that no, normally people didn't have to deal with friends committing suicide and coming back to life and acting like everything was normal.

Because it HAD happened. John HAD suffered. Sherlock had given him that critical glare, _you are illogical_ , for remembering, but it would have been just as illogical to forget.

And John hated it sometimes. Hated to watch Sherlock starve himself, watch him risk himself stupidly, watch him shoot criminals in the back in cold blood, watch him bleed and bleed and bleed from his head and not regain consciousness for agonizingly long minutes. John hated to lose control over himself while under Sherlock's unaffected, logical scrutiny, and then to be made to feel like HE was in the wrong for being upset in the first place. John felt stupid for putting up with it. But at the same time, it had been _three years_ , three terrible, painful years. John didn't think he could bear to be apart from Sherlock that long again.

He didn't know what he was going to do.

 

He visited Harry, and ended up staying for a couple days. He tried going back to 221B after that, but Sherlock was out somewhere. After a couple hours, for want of company, John just went to Lestrade's and stayed there instead. He tried to go back to 221B again, and found himself staying on Molly's couch that night, and finally, when he was considering calling some of his old girlfriends, it occurred to him how ridiculous it was for him to avoid his own flat.

 

Sherlock was on his way out as John came back in, but he turned around and tailed John inside.

“It's all right,” John said. “You can go--”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “I was going to find you.”

“Oh,” John said. “Well. Here I am.”

Sherlock was opened his mouth to speak, but apparently he was thrown off by this conversation not starting according to plan. “John, I--” he began. He took a deep breath, and looked John right in the eye. “Stay. Please.”

John looked at Sherlock's face. There was something vulnerable in the set of his mouth, the corners of his eyes, that usually wasn't there.

“I know I'm not what someone would call 'a good friend', but I--”

“Hold on a second,” John interrupted, furrowing his eyebrows. “Who gave you that idea?”

“You did,” Sherlock said. “You told me...”

John didn't remember saying anything of the sort, but Sherlock clearly did. John shook his head: “I'm sure I didn't mean--”

“It's fine,” Sherlock said over John, and started again. Had he rehearsed this? “I know I'm not what someone would call 'a good friend', but I do think my actions have warranted some credit, if you will. You already know that I faked my death to save your life, and I would do so again without hesitation. What you don't know is that every moment I spent away, I spent doing my utmost to ensure that no similar threat to your safety could arise aga--”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, holding up a hand. “You told me. I already know you were off working somewhere, fighting crime. Save the speech.” He climbed the stairs wearily, but Sherlock was hot on his tail.

“You don't understand, you _need_ to understand,” Sherlock said urgently, grabbing John's shoulder and whirling him around to force him to look him in the eye. “I-- it wasn't just _working,_ it wasn't _fun_.” He abruptly let go of John's shoulder and circled around frantically through the sitting room. “It was horrible, every day was horrible... I saw things I never wanted to see, did things to other people I never wanted to do. Every day I thought about giving up, hanging up the gun and fading into the background somewhere, and every day I reminded myself I had to get back to London, _to you_. For three years. I was all alo--” Sherlock's voice caught. He looked over at John, wide-eyed, and cleared his throat. “By myself. For three years.”

To John's dismay, the faintest beginnings of tears were forming in Sherlock's eyes. John was sure Sherlock would be dismayed too, if he noticed he was doing it. For a moment, both of them only stared at each other.

All of Sherlock's frantic energy faded. He collapsed into a seat on the couch.

John joined him, delicately touching Sherlock's forearm with the tips of his fingers as he sat down. “You were lonely,” John murmured sympathetically.

Sherlock stilled, and then he looked away and gave a jerky nod of his head to the opposite wall.

John took Sherlock's shoulders and gathered him up in a hug. “It's okay,” he murmured. “I was lonely too.” It was an empathetic statement, not a spiteful one; Sherlock understood, because he threw his arms around John in response.

“For three years. It's—it's enough,” Sherlock said, just barely keeping himself under control. “No more. Please.”

“No more. It's over now,” John agreed in a soothing voice. “I'm right here.”

And everything was better, until it was absolutely fine.

  
\---

 


End file.
